


Bete Noire

by alnora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, M/M, implied dean/cas, implied sam/lucifer, sam/monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnora/pseuds/alnora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monsters take on many forms and can appear when least expected. Reptilian scales glistening with blood in the afternoon sun, a vampire at your bedside. Most are simple to identify. The monsters in your head, they can be a little harder to discern. Especially when they look like the people you love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bete Noire

**Author's Note:**

> Another long story that took on a mind of its own. General oddness ahead, but nothing we're not already used to. I hope... I hope many things about this. Mostly that it's *okay*.

There had to be a reason for it. A catalyst, a set of instructions unconsciously followed that triggered these, these delusions. This is what logical minds would deduce. Nothing just happens. Chaos itself has structure. Rules. Parameters. A led to B resulting in C. Easy explanations, simple concepts, that set a mind at ease. You have cancer because you smoked a pack a day. Your electric bill is so high because you never turn the damn lights off. You're bleeding out because you made a deal with a demon. See? Reasons for everything.

 

Then why couldn't he find one?

 

Was he tired? Was he not tired enough? Was Venus not in the right house? Conditions were either correct or completely wrong and if he weren't already mad he'd be knocking on the door demanding to be let in. Did he say the wrong thing? Were words or even silence triggering it?

 

It may have been something out of his control. Maybe that's a poor choice of words: at the moment, his entire life is out of control, nearly every aspect of it. A better phrasing might be that when he came back from Hell (his soul) that he did bring something back with him, and not necessarily what he thought it was. Lucifer, Satan, Morning Star, whatever he wanted to be called at that point in their “sessions” -one of the many things he enjoyed doing was bragging about the Bible-length collection of names he had collected over the years, given to himself and by others- seemed to be obvious for it was that image which haunted Sam day after day. But it wasn't. Lucifer was still under lock and key, he _was not there_ in any possible way, as hard as it was to believe with that condescending voice, so sweet and acrid in his ear; breath warm and humid against his cheek; the smell of serpents pungent in the air. Artificial, but how? It was so real and only to him.

 

Could he have brought something back with him? A lamprey, a parasite that sucked onto his soul on his way back home, some little demonic hitchhiker. No, not a demon. Something incorporeal, no different than the wind or a shadow; a diaphanous black beast at the base of his brain stem feeding off of him, torturing him, poisoning him with words like ash and honey.

 

Whatever ailed him could not have been from within. For Sam to be the cause followed no logic. From without... that had to be it. Whatever it was had to be outside of himself, a separate being. Choice and opinion were no longer his to determine, his mind no longer under his command. Cries contained by sealed lips, tears and sweat and fear and despair served to further motivate this monster inside.

 

Sam's mind was not his own. Lucifer had taken many... many things from him while in the pit and in one final act of brevity, when Sam thought he was back on solid ground and safe – safer than he had been, he took the last thing what had withheld and had not been tainted: his identity. Where did “Sam” exist? Was he still in hell? Would this beast take over completely, making him feel like he was still there? And Dean. Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean.

 

Although lying stationary in bed, eyes as blank as the ceiling he was staring at, he felt as if he were falling, stomach rising toward his lungs, toward his throat. Lodging there and becoming nauseous, falling but where is he going? He's stuck, absolutely frozen in place and it's becoming so difficult to breathe. Fuck, is the oxygen he's inhaling even real? Sam wants to laugh because it's so damn stupid, but wants to scream until his throat becomes raw because he can't stop.

 

It shouldn't be long now.

 

Some nights he toys with Sam, drawing out the foreplay until just that moment before his clenched jaw nearly shatters his teeth or claws out his eyes or tears at the veins in his wrist with his nails. Just before. Can't reach climax so soon. Other nights he springs forth like a mousetrap, subtle and soothing as the crack of a whip. Blindsided, no time to prepare his defensive mental walls. Not that they withstood the onslaught for long.

 

How could such encounters be so violent if no physical contact is ever made? The pain and torture and fear and castigation was so tangible he made it real. The bruising. The scratches. The tears from criticism he believed to be golden truth. The... He bit his tongue. Shame.

 

“Funny you should bring that up, Sammy, because that's exactly how you should be feeling right now.” Though the pat to his covered thigh was friendly (it always was), Lucifer's tone dripped with mocking disappointment. “You're beginning to make this too easy for me and let's be honest with each other here since we have that sort of relationship: where's the fun in that?”

 

Sam doesn't try to move anymore at this point. Vainly struggling against invisible bonds would sever one of the few frail threads of resistance he held. Time after time, here on earth and in hell were exercises in this lesson well learned. Satan was here and he would not leave until satisfied. Sam Winchester was helpless against his own mind.

 

“Shame on you again, young man!” Lucifer yanked the bed sheets off of Sam with a disgruntled huff and dropped them into a heap on the floor. “How many times have I told you since we both came back that I'm just as real as the pretty little hairs on your head? Three? Four? Fifty times? I think I lost count around thirty-two.” The mattress bounced under the weight of Lucifer sitting on it with child-like enthusiasm. Sam's stomach sloshed around his insides with the motion. He wanted to vomit, retch, anything to distract himself and ease the surmounting queasiness. Like other nights, redemption would not be found.

 

Fingers like spider legs crawled up his calf, the sweatpants covering his legs doing nothing to dull the Devil's intent, a cold that burned so god damn hot and the light, ticklish nature of the touch. Sam couldn't help the pained groan that forced itself from his body. Already he felt soiled. Dirt and sweat and saliva and – and...

 

“It confounds me every time, Sam,” Lucifer remarked quietly, hands absentmindedly padding along the expanse of Sam's right leg. “The way you react to me still, after all our time together. I don't need to read your thoughts to know how you feel about me. Your hair's beginning to stick to your forehead, and your face, well, it's the same color as the sheets you're lying on. And your tummy,” he pouted, “is a grumbly mess, isn't it? I just... I just don't get it.”

 

Shut up. Shut up. His eyes could not close any further, but this not prevent Sam from trying. This monologue was heading in only one direction and it was _false_ , it was _fake_ , he's lying, the Devil's good at lying, that's what he does, right? He fucking invented prevarication.

 

No, not right.

 

He gagged. Habit urged him to cover his mouth and face. His invisible restraints gave him no leeway.

 

“Oh Sammy,” Lucifer cooed, shimmying further up the bed and closer to Sam. “That's what I mean. I have given you everything you wanted. Well, everything you can't have. I've been so good to you, thinking of nothing but your desires, and you repay me with such resentment. Your disdain is palpable; I can feel the bile burning your throat.”

 

Once again fingers touched him, only this time against bare skin, and Sam's body was on fire. A cold that froze his very marrow, something you could only find on distant planets. Blood ceased to move. His body rigid with pain or glaciation or both. His lungs frozen stiff. Sam's mouth opened in a silent scream.

 

Except he didn't. Nothing happened, naturally. A warm heart pumped warm blood. The vapor of his own breath was not visible. From death to what many would consider to be alive in the blink of an eye. Living. Because death would be too easy. A stab to the heart or a bullet to the brain and it's over, he's riding that black Impala to the sky where monsters and hallucinations can't touch you. The restraints used against him weren't so much for keeping him bound to one spot so he could not escape: there _was_ no exit. Bind the hands to keep them off of a gun, lie those long legs so he can't find a knife to draw art on his wrists.

 

A sob threatened. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.

 

Lucifer's thumb grazed his lips. “The pain you feel comes from yourself, not me. You'll believe me someday.”

 

Bite him. Rip his fucking thumb off. Take a chunk out of his wrist, his hand – something! But what's the point? Oh god, what's the point? It won't matter! You can't harm a shadow. Please, please... stop.

 

A lone tear ran down the corner of his eye and onto the pillow. His stomach twisted again.

 

And it was silent. The touch was gone, even the rustling and creaks from Lucifer's movement on the bed seemed like something he remembered hearing hours ago. Sam felt he was the only one left in the motel room, but it that truly the case? When is he ever alone? Did... did Lucifer actually listen to him? No. No no no. This too is all a part of a game he's playing, one without consent or rules, and one that never ended. Gone but not completely. Lucifer was there somewhere, watching, but the reason could be anything.

 

He stopped. Was what that could follow be exponentially more dangerous than his original plans? Was this too a piece of it? Too many questions. Be quiet. Calm down. Focus. Open your eyes and get up. Watch TV. Do a set of push-ups. Smash your face through the bathroom mirror. Whatever, just get up.

 

From Sam's left -yeah, has to be the left- the clear voice of a boy could be heard. Young, five or six. Clearly enunciated and soft, but above a whisper.

 

“ _...member to let her into your heart–“_

 

His eyelids snapped open like a gunshot.

 

“– _then you can start to make it better._ ”

 

Instinct told him to sit upright and survey the room to find the source, but as a reminder of the best friend he ever made in hell's presence, Sam's limbs remained magnetized to the bed. He strained his neck up, taking in what he could of the dark room and being limited only to it; the bathroom to his far left and the rest of the kitchen around the corner behind it. All was normal. The vestige of a television in front of the bed. The hum of the refrigerator. Light bulbs at rest under plastic covering on the ceiling, a ceiling which seemed to stretch into infinity, a lifeless white expanding like the universe and he was going to become lost in it, or it would fall on him and that was probably for the best. But it wouldn't kill him. No, he'd be locked in stasis, floating in nothing. Alive, alone in gray. Not alone. Would it be at all different than it is now?

 

“ _...a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little..._ I feel so silly doing this all by myself. Mom would help out and all...” Sam couldn't find it. The voice just was. In his head, out of it, existing everywhere around him. He sounded so disappointed. A little insecure but... He was trying, soldiering through an uncomfortable situation.

 

“I hope I'm doing okay, baby brother.”

 

Sam swallowed down a whimper, deep down, along with the memory of ever wanting to do so. Yeah Dean, you did just fine. He blocked out his vision once again as the corners of the room began to tilt. You always did your best. Never did ask for a reward for your altruism, did you? And nothing's changed since. You were my entire world then. Now.

 

An indiscernible tug of the sheets agonizingly reminding him of his role in this game. The first round was coming to its close. All four corners now, whatever sentience taking cue, stretching muscles and warming blood.

 

Dean. Pl–

 

No. Don't ask for help. Get him out of your thoughts. Ignore his voice and the blossoming memories they conjure. Stop. Out. Get out get out. You gotta prevent this from happening. Don't give Lucifer the ammunition he wants to further obliterate the only pieces of sagacity and dignity you have left hanging by a thread in your brain. No more thinking about his guard dog mentality, protecting what was his until the moment he stopped breathing and ever loyal; a voice like bourbon burning all the way down but god was there solace in that pain; freckle-kissed skin he wanted to... badly to...

 

How weak could he be? Pathetic. As the tendrils wrapped around his legs, his stomach, his forearms, Sam had to question whether he was truly the man everyone thought he was. Intelligent, brave to a fault, the sympathetic Winchester. Really? That's who he was supposed to be. So, at the end of the day, was he not in fact exactly like his brother, his supposed opposite? They wore the same mask, both a different design but obscuring the twisted face -reality- behind it. Nothing was admirable about him. Reprehensible. Disgusting. Perverted. Unfit for any society.

 

The harder he tried to cast out his brother from his mind, the more firmly rooted he became.

 

At this point it was too late. Lucifer's eclipse over him was set and would not conclude until he drained whatever he wanted out of Sam absolutely. So gentle these existential creatures were, never tight in their constriction and tender flicks of – what the hell could it be? Noses? Tongues? They were invisible, it shouldn't matter, but they touched, nudged at the sensitive patches of his skin: the back of his knees, his neck, where leg connected to hip. A warm breath than a pressure, really. No different than a lover's caress. But beware of false prophets, these serpentine ghosts were only an opening act.

 

Tonight was no different as they tickled his chest, feeling, searching. The waistband of his pants prevented some from traveling south while others stayed put around his calves. It wouldn't remain that way for long. The surprise would be the who or what, and how. What were these... things anyway? They felt solid, not like a grouping hand with fingers creating uneven pressure. Lengthy too, as far as he could tell: an anaconda with a kitten's touch. Or maybe they varied. A few laconic moments later and such small details were negligible.

 

In Hell he was told that “ _I'm always depicted with a thin flagelliform tail, a cute little spade on the tip. You could think of them this way. Another part of me to caress you when others won't._ ”Gentle, caressing, loving. There was no love in this! No person cries and bleeds and screams and begs for termination! Don't you dare bring something like love into this! What they– what you do to me is...

 

“ _It's very fitting, comparing them to whips. Pain is the only thing you know, the only sensation you've ever felt that wasn't an arrant fallacy. That's your reality and I'll bet my golden fiddle it's the only way you can be aroused anymore._ ”

 

Dean's voice returned (he never left) and began to hum, his reverberation, his presence, much closer now. The same song but now as an adult; the tune strayed off-key sometimes, but with such a deep voice it was natural. It had been so long since Sam had heard his singing voice not ironic or exaggerated due to song choice. Had he ever heard it at all, a fantasy morphed into tangibility? A song just for you, Sammy, sung for no one else but you. Beautiful baby brother, why won't you

 

“Listen to me? Ever since the day you were born, the very instant mom brought you home, I lived and breathed- _existed_ -for you. Even when you split for Stanford a red string kept me tied to you. More like an umbilical cord, really. As long as you lived, I lived.” He laughed something dark, deep within his lungs. Sam could picture dark flakes escaping his mouth with every “ha” he heard at the foot of the bed, something like his brother standing over him. What kind of face did Dean contemplate him with? The grin of someone reminiscing over his capricious and fatuous brother? Or did he look like his creator, grim commiseration due in part to the denial of self?

 

“Sam-my, come on now,” Lucifer tutted from what sounded like the kitchen. Probably perched on the counter or the refrigerator or who the hell gives a damn. “You know I have nothing to do with Dean and Castiel showing up during our playdates. I for one prefer our alone time,” he said with a pout, “but if they are what you want, I can't stop you.”

 

Bullshit, absolute bullshit. He thrived on the added drama, so much he would... he made himself... He _looked_ like them. A selfless act, he said, only doing what Sam wanted. The already present inclination to vomit increased, bubbling acid burning his stomach.

 

Dean continued as if he were never interrupted. “You never appreciated it. Well, why would you? I was just like another adult breathing down your neck and trying to keep your gangly ass out of trouble. But now that I've had time to do some serious thinking, you know, that stuck on the john without reading material kind of thinking, I have a hunch about why you really left,” his voice dropped lower, almost conspiratorially.

 

The binds around his stomach lowered, a deliberate crawl down, taking his pants with them a fraction at a time. Others pushed Sam's shirt up, up, up. His body shivered as a residue of sweat began to form on his skin. It's still not too late to stop this. Block the mimicry of his brother out, will them all to disappear. Alone in a motel room. That's real.

 

“You didn't leave just to piss off dad. You left because of me, too. Not for the reason I thought of at first,” he amended. “Because just as much as I depended on you to live, you needed me as that parental figure in your life and that scared the everliving hell out of you.” Dean's voice was getting dangerously softer now; he was inching closer to checkmate and basked in savoring, memorializing the moment. “Without me there to back you up, to be your crutch when things went wrong and honestly someone to confide in, you were lost. Sure you mingled with the normals for awhile but baby boy, you knew deep down in your gut that there wasn't a speck of a chance of you ever fitting in with them.”

 

Sam's skin was bare now, though his shirt was only able to be lifted to his underarms. His instinct was to push his legs together in a feeble attempt to cover himself, which he tried hardheartedly. What was the point anymore? This was certainly not the first time he had been exposed to his brother (his apparition) in such a way and like before, physical struggling would get him nowhere. It still disgraced him. God it always will.

 

The foot of the bed dipped as Dean climbed atop of it to take a seat on Sam's thighs. Close, it's too close, get off. I can feel your eyes. Don't look at me. “You were a trooper for denying it like you did; you really did want to believe the lies you told yourself and the folks you called friends. But at the end of the day you were the one who had to live knowing that you needed me just as much as I needed you. You had no one to chastise or correct anymore. You couldn't tell those kindly do-gooders how obnoxious they were. I made you feel better about yourself, probably for the wrong reasons.

 

“But it was a different kind of need, Sammy.” A calloused thumb brushed his bottom lip, except it wasn't a finger at all. It took several times of _that_ to resolve that these mirages never physically touched him. They'd hover, they'd feign certain acts but never went through with them. The tentacle-like creatures replicated that. But that was all in Sam's head, too. Nobody touched him. Nothing touched him.

 

“Oh, this is my favorite part,” Lucifer critiqued, like he were watching a movie he had previously seen. One that was worth seeing again.

 

“I don't know when it started. A teenager maybe. Well, whenever it was, your tolerating me turned to dependence, and for whatever reason that turned to...” A deliberative hum vibrated against the walls. “Let's just say it's illegal in all but a few states. Why is that?” He laughed. “Falling in love with your brother, I mean, not about why incest is... You know what I mean.”

 

Blocking Dean out wasn't helping. How could he be ignored? The weight on his legs, the voice that made his very insides shake, the tickle of a rebellious strand of hair being pushed away. He possessed this moment, conducting the direction events would go with candidly truthful words. Sam had his own words to say that burned his throat, but why say them? Dean was from his unconscious. Dean _was_ his thoughts personified. No reason to cry foul when you set the rules. So there they remained, rotting and poisoning his body.

 

“I think that _you_ think that I'm the only person you could -honest engine- be with.” Sam could feel Dean's assured smile, the I'm-a-little-shit-and-I-know-it smile. He was right, and he knew he was right, why skirt around it with pretensions like “I think” and “I know?” “You knew even when you were running around in diapers that you were never normal. You were a little off and you couldn't explain it, and that's probably why you read and studied as much as you did: To find some logic in your life. 'Oh, this happens because of that,' 'I excel at History because the information before me is unchanging and set forever.' You totally talk like that, don't deny it.”

 

Dean sounded so much like Dean. He wanted to wail at him to stop this mockery. He wanted to backhand him, punch his head so hard it cracked open against a wall. He wanted to stab this thing through the heart.

 

He wanted to smile. He wanted to tell Dean to “Shut up, jerk,” take his arm and pull him down so they would be face to face, then they would...

 

There was nothing Sam could do to stop the tear from rolling down the side of his head.

 

“There was no book or internet search that could explain the mystery of wanting to be with your dick of a brother in a biblical sense.” Dean rubbed away the salty trail and drew his hand delicately down, his neck, his chest– and with that touch Sam could feel him _inside_ , a wide warmth spread around his organs and penetrating muscle. The opposite of Lucifer.

 

“The only one you stand a chance with is someone just as fucked up as yourself. Lucky for you,” Dean's hand came to rest at his navel, a finger tracing the defined abdominals near it, “that somebody was a foot and a half away in the next room. Totally clueless, too, because not only am I a dick, I'm also the most dense person alive,” he flippantly remarked.

 

The appendages around Sam began to writhe, shaking, relaxing their grip and tightening again like a pulse. Anticipating. Their methods never changed, spreading and reacting to natural stimuli like moss or fungus. The stimuli being whatever my head wants them to do. Even in Sam's mind he could not control the volume and choke on his own voice. _He_ didn't want to be bound. Maybe Dean did, even Lucifer. Someone else! Just not him.

 

“I dunno about that, Sammy Sam Sam,” Lucifer prevaricated with a hint of condescension. “This whole tentacle rape thing sounds like a porn Dean would watch. You put up with someone long enough and you're guaranteed to have some of his... quirkier interests rub off on ya. Or maybe you think it's a kink I have.” Sam could almost hear him shrugging his shoulders. “Either way, it's what you think.”

 

Dean crawled forward a couple of inches to sit directly on Sam's groin. “No,” he wallowed, not meaning to say anything at all. It would be ignored all the same. You can't tell what is essentially your shadow to stop what it's doing.

 

“What gets my panties all in a knot,” Dean lowered himself down to whisper in Sam's ear, the bristles on his cheek scratching against Sam's own, “is that you didn't tell me.”

 

“ _You're my brother!” Sam's voice pierced through the confines of the cell. “How could I ever tell you something like that! It's... disgusting.” Sobs shuddered through him and tears constantly refreshed in his eyes. “You'd never treat me the same way again.”_

 

“ _Isn't that the whole point?” Dean's face-and Luifcer's voice- raised up from between Sam's legs. “Besides, you'll never know the answer to a question unless you ask.”_

 

This need wasn't only disgusting, it was self-indulgent. Even if incest were a tolerable thing in an alternate universe, confessing devotion to someone taken already was risky if not implosive in its own right. Dean had Cas. Dean had the role of lover filled in. He needed no one else and definitely not his younger brother. Next door, at this exact moment, they could be–

 

A pair of warm lips circled onto his throat, demulcent suction and wet, wet and sticky and like home. Like it should be. But not like this. This isn't you. Help me, please.

 

What was the sensation truly? Dean did not touch him at all. Sam could not help but picture in his mind the tentacles resembling viscus black leeches, uniform in shape until they opened their mouths to latch onto their supper. No acerose teeth to pierce the skin, as far as he knew. One day they would bore of this game, binding and fucking, binding and fucking, and crave something more. Death was probable and as far as Sam was concerned, highly sought after.

 

Knowing would fail to alter anything. There was no point. Only manipulation. It wouldn't stop them or change their method of attack: allowing Satan to use Sam's love against him.

 

“Poor little child left out in the cold, looking through a window as his loving parents sit in front of a fire embracing. Your life is pretty Dickensian, isn't it?” Lucifer said, taking much merriment in the association.

 

“Shut up–ah!” He tried, in his own otiose way, to do _something_. That he was still alive and could feel; he was not drained of his sanity yet. But he should know better. How many years in hell had he endured doing the same exact thing and had it do the opposite? No, becoming numb was the only solution and he can't even do that. As Dean started to nibble against his neck, his hips began to rock on Sam's lap, jeans rubbing against bare flesh, cutting Sam off effectively. Ceasing his protest or progressing their unwilling courtship could be the cause. Teasing... Stop teasing!

 

“Good to see you come up for air, Tiny Tim. I was getting a little worried. You ignore me and my smiley face turns into a frowny face. See? All smiles!”

 

Sam hissed through gritted teeth and wished his troublesome passenger would have one of his quiet nights observing rather than speaking. No such luck, but when did he ever have it? It was all better than – Sam didn't want to think about those nights, those years in the cage. Dean, meanwhile, drew away from Sam's neck (Sam wanting to simultaneously push him back down and out of his room) and started pecking his brother's face with kisses, along his jaw, cheeks and forehead, cooing as he murmured “You don't know how long I've waited” and “You're so fucking beautiful, Sammy.” He wanted to howl until the windows shattered that this wasn't the first time, you've waited for all of two days, asshole.

 

“It must be rough, having the two people you love most ditching you and flaunting their uncomfortable yet sappy romance right in your face. Could you be happy for them? No, not at all! You want to be right there in the middle of it all,” Lucifer seethed, “shoveling your desire deep into your soul's pocket to stop from putting on interference, vying for the attention of either one of them.”

 

Dean's hand snaked between their bodies, pushed himself up to comfortably access Sam's half-erect penis, and the fire returned. His toes and fingers curled, words of protest tumbling over each other in his throat.

 

“It's bad enough you can't have Dean, but having him call dibs on my brother? You're in a rough spot there, kiddo. No wonder you're crazy. You're pretty fortunate to have a sympathetic ear who doesn't have a choice but to hear you drone _on and on_ about your condemned love life. I think I do a pretty great job. I'd ask for a pat on the back, but you seem to be tied up over there.” He paused. “Get it? Tied up?” Sighing, Lucifer lamented, “You're such a stick in the mud, I swear.”

 

Sam thought until that point he had been doing an admirable job abstaining from struggling and refraining from protest, internally fighting the good fight. It'll end eventually so just withstand it until them. But when Dean's adroit tongue found the pentacle tattoo on his chest, nothing conceivable could stop him from crying out, limbs shaking with tension. The spot was not particularly sensitive. He and Dean had no reason to get the tattoos in the same place, and frankly Sam thought Dean would turn up his nose when he saw it. Chalk it up to childish idealism, Dean could have thought. Just following the lead of his big bro. It wasn't. Sam wanted not just a genetic bond but a physical one... marking Sam as Dean's in a moderately subtle way. This was as close to physical as they would ever be.

 

The terseness in his body coupled with strain of controlling his voice as Dean worked his tongue and hands, Sam's voice came out subdued, like high pressure air locked under a cap. “Dean... _Dean_... god damnit _stop_.” It wasn't his brother, so it would not respond like his brother. “Dean” was no different than saying “the.” Or better yet: completely ignored. He hoped, as one does when the end is near, that saying his name would kindle recognition in wherever it kept its memory, that the real Winchester would never do this and would just fucking disappear.

 

Lucifer was right – Sam is a shameful thing, isn't he? The cries to stop, all those shed tears wetting the bed and the floor and the cage, prayers to a vacant god who against all odds held a molecule of pity offset by equally undignified pleasure by the same person/thing that assaulted him. Rape, simple as that. Yet he reacted in a manner that made a liar out of him. The realization had made him vomit early on, every time it happened with Lucifer; he'd find it hilarious, punch Sam a couple times before continuing. And all of a sudden, it stopped.

 

He... he had gotten used to the way his body betrayed him. Desensitization had eroded some of his disgust away and – what exactly? Was it all just a part of not resisting anymore? Don't feel anything, just let it be over and done with? But he did feel. He was repulsed by himself, and it was only that. It was all he could think -disgusting, you're disgusting, sick fuck what's wrong with you?- but he couldn't stop. His body still heaved, his body still reacted in a positive manner. Both Sam's body and mind moved against him, a crime against himself.

 

Dean moved lower and lower, murmuring about how much he loved his Sammy, what kind of person he became, before taking Sam into his mouth with a shock that felt like a sturdy punch to Sam's kidneys because he just fucking knew how hard he would get, how quickly he could come.

 

“Ain't that a shame,” Lucifer sang, “my tears fell like rain.”

 

Even as images of what was really happening -not Dean but those invisible tendrils with perfect O mouths- flashed through his head, it wasn't enough. Nothing ever was. To that scummy infected part of him, this copy of his brother was an adequate substitution. For that he deserved to be sent to hell once more.

 

Dean adjusted the depth as Sam continued to harden, not using his hands yet, not while he could help it. His image of Dean was, well, he'd gag after a certain point. Pushing himself with Cas to hit the wall -the same wall- every time. Dean was stubborn, yes, but he knew when to switch to a different tactic. Sweeping one imperfection under the rug, he'd perfect what he was capable of: suction that could lift the paint off of a car, a tongue that massaged and urged you to orgasm because it knew how damn good it was; a free hand stroking with a pressure that made him squirm, teasing what his mouth could not handle. This imaginary Dean made the theory reality. It was that Sam wanted, so it was perfect, and that perfection tore him apart.

 

The nightmares would be so simple to deal with if Dean gave a shitty blowjob. Perfect lips against his, on him, forming an exquisite seal around his cock, watching himself sink further and further into his brother's mouth–

 

“So debased, young man!” Lucifer guffawed as Sam choked, finally yanking at his bonds chanting a mantra of “no, no, no.” “Aren't you tired of this routine yet? Always crying to be saved as you reach bliss? I gave you want you wanted in the cage.”

 

“Like shit you did!” Still unwilling to open his eyes, Sam could see Lucifer's chest heave concertedly: stymied again.

 

“I _did_ , Sam. You turned me down time after time after time. Because of the bond you and I have, it hurt me, but in the end I always want what's right for you.”

 

Making me your vessel was right for me? Forcing yourself on me in the cage was right? Driving me to kill myself is right for me? Sam wanted up. He wanted Lucifer destroyed – his vessel, his grace, his memories and the memories anything had ever had of him so he would cease to exist utterly and absolutely. As hard as he tried to pull free it was as if his extremities didn't exist either, no different than Dean. Phantom limbs. Numb. Nothing. Dean rubbed his mid-section as that part of him could still wriggle around, like he were coaxing a dog, never skipping a beat as he continued to work on Sam.

 

“You rejected me, but I made it right. I took on Dean's image, I took on Castiel's, to please you. You enjoyed yourself at my expense.”

 

“Don't you...” Sam lost some resolve as Dean became distrustfully more noisy: pops and smacks nipping at his control. Couldn't say his older brother didn't enjoy his work. And that humming coursed through every inch of him. They could hum? No they can't, and neither can Dean. He filled his lungs quickly with air. “Don't you _dare_ make yourself out to be a marytr.” STOP TALKING.

 

Lucifer replied indifferently. “Don't misinterpret me; I wasn't sacrificing anything. Not a big fan of that ideology, anyway. But you have to admit that your tune did change when I became one of them. You acted... different.”

 

“You raped me! You beat me!”

 

“Bullshit, Sam!” It was peculiar to hear Lucifer, usually so reserved, raise his voice. He was positively indignant. “Never did I once do such a thing! When I was in this form it frightened you, so I stopped. Then I learned what you truly wanted by way of a little bird and adjusted my approach to suit.”

 

“Are you seriously trying to rationalize this!” Sam bit the inside of his cheek as he hit the back of Dean's throat.

 

“Only trying to clear up a nebulous memory,” he digressed. “Oh you were upset, not because I was 'raping' you, but that I forced you to come face-to-face with the feelings you abhorred so much. Never from pain or from being taken advantage of. You were living out something you had only dreamed about and you were terrified. But never, Sam,” his voice hardly registering, “did you push me away.”

 

Sam shook his head. And shook and shook and shook and shook–

 

“I was Dean and you'd shake and whimper a little, but it was Dean. When I was Cas your eyes would water and were so wide I thought they'd fall out sometimes. You didn't tell me to stop, so I didn't. Sometimes you would... hold on.”

 

All the air was being vacuumed out of his lungs, blood missing from his brain, head disconnected from his body and floating along. Oxygen is a myth; there was nothing within him to prove it true, same as the outside. Was this a dream? Was this a waking dream? Nothing is making sense.

 

“Liar” is what he wanted to say. His mouth gaped open like a fish instead. Lucifer never lies, who all too willingly gave that tidbit of information to anyone he spoke to, past or present. Only a sociopath would say something like that. There couldn't be any truth in those words.

 

“It's something you still do with me here on the surface, even though you say I'm 'only an illusion.' That probably wasn't a good impression of you. I apologize. Granted I don't play dress-up anymore... Maybe you imagine me as one of them? And you tell me I'm not real,” he coyly teased.

 

Dean swallowed loudly enough for Sam to hear and sighed zestfully. Someone was happy with his work so far, completely oblivious to the pitiful groans above his head. Why wouldn't he be that way? To Dean, to whatever that monster was, he was doing only what was wanted of him. His baby boy wanted him. He never denied Sam of much so why start now? Just giving him what he wants. But _how_ could he be so deaf! Dean wasn't ignoring him on purpose: he literally could not hear it. Why?

 

“If you don't know already than you don't deserve to be told.” Lucifer always did have a flair for the juvenile.

 

The weight of Sam's brother was placed on his stomach when Dean straddled him, a hand clumsily stroking still behind him. Sotto voce, speaking to Sam and only Sam, he urged him to “Look at me.” It was the first allusion Dean had made to the feeble intransigence he displayed and it acted as a length of wire to be reeled in, Sam's cognizance being pulled back from oblivion, that place where... a place that couldn't possibly be true.

 

Dean's, his– he was still on him, his wet his mouth his spit was still on him, easing the friction of the strokes and it was good, wasn't it? It was good every god damn time he did it. Because it happened so many times before and it _always felt good_. Traitor. His stomach contracted. Stop. I'm not the brother you deserve.

 

“C'mon, Sammy, open 'em up for me.” Still that same low voice, not impatient with him or displeased. A stern comfort. It was a simple enough request, but if he faced that demon in fabricated skin he wasn't sure where he would end up. Would it even look like Dean?

 

A free hand brushed against his hair once again, a gesture Sam would have leaned into given more favorable circumstances. Dean drew back. And silence. The bed didn't groan under shifting weight. He could hear neither himself nor Dean breathing. Even Lucifer remained still and reticent. It seemed almost to be good to be true, almost as if had disappeared if not for the weight pressed upon his body.

 

That is until and enlightened “oh” was heard in his direction. What's that supposed to mean?

 

“You should open your eyes. I wouldn't want you to die of shock.”

 

What's _that_ supposed to mean?

 

The weight leaned back and enveloped him in steady increments, and “shock” was being polite. Sam didn't understand how it happened at all. The air was still, nobody was moving, nobody undressed. And then it was there, a spongy slick heat almost sunken completely to the base around him, something that had done this to him before with such swift adjustment, but felt entirely fucking new to Sam. It was enough to get his eyes open finally and they nearly fell out of his skull. Back arching, he couldn't help but gasp loud enough set off car alarms.

 

Dean, no – Cas. They traded places. Sam saw his hair first. No matter how dark a room could get, it was like Cas's hair was its own color, luminescent in its lack of it. An aureole, Sam would grieve after nocturnal visits like these. The rest comes into focus not long after. Dean is a monster that turned into Cas who is also a monster. The same monster. The change was so seamless, too. The weight remained even; Dean's clothed legs didn't feel any different than Cas's bare ones. Damnit. Damnitdamnitdamnitdamnit.

 

Disappearing inside that O-shaped mouth once again. Sam wanted so badly to see _that_ , something so repulsive he'd snap out of this macabre delirium and convulse until sleep deemed him worthy of it. More often than not, the sandman was ruthless. Would tonight be any different? Much of what he needed to stand upright and grapple through the day evaded him. Praying for a beast instead of an angel -inverted as it was- was one of them. A monster with matted fir and gnarled horns, breath pungent with the stink of carrion would have been a more pleasant sight, and something that would have hit an Off button in his brain.

 

But what he had was the opposite. Soft flesh, clean and alive and yielding, surrounding him, a reassuring presence, rocking a slow and steady pace on his lap. His fingers ethereally resting on Sam's stomach, for better balance or simply a place to put them. Any lower and the touch would tickle, but, of course, it would be avoided. Couldn't have a jolt of the absurd to wake him up. Cas's face hung low but from such an angle could still make out dark lashes on closed lids and a parted mouth (…), small huffs of air synchronizing with the gyrations. In past encounters Cas's vocal range varied from reserved to he-might-be-speaking-with-his-true-voice. Sam hadn't a clue how that idea was planted into his head; if Cas could only act in a way that was predetermined, what made it so enticing? Wasn't a little variety just thrilling?

 

Lucifer chuckled. “It's exciting in the same way fucking a Catholic school girl is. Get past the namesake and the cliched good girl attitude and you know there's spitting and hissing sex fiend under it all. Castiel is your grade school crush, and that's probably the sweetest thing I've heard all week. Shame the feeling isn't mutual,” he trailed off.

 

Cas's length remain partially hidden by the already dim light and shadows cast by his arms... No. Block it out. His soul roared at him to close his eyes, to not stick his hand into the mousetrap laid about before him. A tiny little field mouse with a penchant for sneaking into the pantry in the early hours of the morning would have its neck snapped, and that would be that. An absolute end for Mickey. Sam's fate would be harder to determine, but a swift death was not a part of it.

 

Oh God, but he wanted to. A shudder broke out over his body as Cas changed his rhythm, sliding up and down slowly, so fucking agonizingly slow, like moving in adagio. And it was like a dance: shoulders up so his back was at a slight arch, stomach flat and lean, every move premeditated for the enjoyment of his exclusive audience. Sam would tear off the sentient bonds, flip Cas onto his back and set his own pace, driving into the angel until he mewled every curse word he knew in Enochian, tore the flesh of Sam's back with blunt nails, and came with _his_ name on his lips. That's what he wanted. What he wanted from the true Castiel. Sam pressed his own nails into palms, hard enough for the tips to become wet. It was the only thing he could do. Drawing blood wasn't enough to make him come to his senses.

 

A thump from the kitchen said that Lucifer hopped down from wherever he was perched upon, shoes tapping on cheap linoleum as he came closer. Sam wouldn't look. Not only would there be the fallen angel to greet him like a father, but the much more damning backdrop of the cage behind him. To view him would be no different than being dragged by the leg back to hell on a surface of broken shards of glass and blood. More than that, he was petrified of seeing himself.

 

“Castiel never really liked you. Drinking blood, being the armor to my knight, he didn't have much of a reason to like you.” He was close now, right next to him and just out of his peripheral vision where Sam hoped he would stay. Cas leaned forward, resting his hands on Sam's chest, changing the angle slightly and beginning to come out of his shell with frequent but muted moans that nonetheless vibrated throughout his body and into Sam's, penetrating skin and muscle.

 

“But you... To you, first and foremost, he was an angel. Your first ever real live angel! Conjuring up images of noble and beautiful winged men in towels aiding humans with their petty squabbles, or babies with slingshots, blah blah and so on. And you had so much to ask him! About angels and heaven and God. Your mother. What would she think about all of this?” he asked slowly, speculatively.

 

Sam prayed for death as stomach acid ate away at his esophagus. To have him speak at all of his mother was reprehensibly egregious and at this point in their relationship unimaginative. But if she ever caught wind of her son's depravity...

 

“How hard you tried to be amicable with him, only to be denied the same courtesy at every advance. An angel -exotic, tall, dark and handsome- wanted nothing to do with you. 'They're nothing like what I imagined,' you'd pout. And you still do, because Dean always had his heart, didn't he? Even before he got himself a vessel, Castiel was soft for the guy. It's probably for that reason you took such a shining to my brother.” The Morning Star knelt beside the bed, folding his arm near Sam's shoulder. Voice now lowered, Cas's panting was the loudest noise in the room, and it continued to increase. “Cats do the same thing, you know. In an entire room of people wanting to cuddle and hug and kiss it, a cat will always go after the one whom ignores it – the dog lover, the kid with allergies. You know well what a fine specimen you are; most people would make a crossroad deal to have you for a night. But you don't _want_ that. My Samuel wants the apple.”

 

In spite of Sam's best efforts to look at the ceiling, the window, the corner of the room, anywhere but at Cas or Lucifer, his eyes were forcefully drawn to Cas's own, enigmatic as always, lust notwithstanding. One can't help but look at the person surveying them: even if that person is at a distance you can still feel their gaze. When Castiel does, well, he's viewing you in your entirety, studying you no differently than Darwin on Galapagos. While he was very clearly enjoying the sex, thrusting upon Sam with the same vigor as when he (somehow) started, the pace sped up only a modicum and lips that ached to be assaulted, it was now secondary. Could Cas be judging him? Could he hear Lucifer?

 

“The brother society won't let him have. The angel with eyes only for that brother, who not to mention only tolerates him for the brother's sake. Quite the sad tale you have there,” he laughed scathingly. “Astounding you haven't killed yourself yet. How you haven't given up at all.”

 

Cas– no, not Cas. Those things. The reoccurring awareness of them rush back at him and he recoiled, moaning out in disgust and wishing he could bury his head under the pillow beneath him. God he was shameful. It wasn't Cas riding atop of him, tight as Sam imagined and working his hips like he had been doing this his entire life. It was a fucking monster. It was his fucking _head_.

 

“I see it in your face. How your eyes always droop down, that persistent frown. You're tired.” Lucifer's finger nudged small circles on Sam's bicep, attempting to soothe him, chilled so intensely against his molten skin he feared it might turn black. “Regressing. Pretending. Being alone. I know you don't believe me when I say I love you.”

 

“Fuck, y...” He had little energy to spit the venom he desired to. It was just too much effort.

 

“In the pit, even before it,” he stated, “that was the way I felt. Sam Winchester was the bright spot in a humdrum day. The sugar in my coffee. The metaphors can go on and on. But Sam Winchester doesn't feel the same way. That hurt for a while. In the end, what I came to realize that all I wanted was your happiness.”

 

You selfless fucking prick, good for you. Pretending to care about another over yourself, give yourself a pat on the back.

 

“I gave you Dean and Cas in the pit and you thanked me for it–”

 

“LIAR!” He tried vainly to keep the tears in. Shameful.

 

“But you loved them, not me. And you know what? That was okay. Because you were happy.”

 

Lucifer sighed like the snake oil salesman he was, dreamy and hopeful. “Don't you get it, Sam? You have to 'cause you're a smart cookie. You'll never have either of them, nor did you ever stand a chance. You will remain at absolute zero for the rest of your existence. Now, now, I know it hurts to hear, but that's the truth. Lucky for you,” he patted Sam's shoulder, “you have me. Once again I'm the conduit for your naughty little secrets.”

 

He was talking to much, so much so his words began to melt into one another, incoherent mumbles strung along in a catatonic haze. Sam was getting dizzy, too, his brain sloshing against his head like a boat caught on turbulent waters. Sleep... _nothing_ sounded like Xanadu. Block out Lucifer and Cas and Dean and slimy invasive tentacles. No more words to assault him. Disintegrate, ridding himself of ego and id. An abyssal end was only one step away from where he currently stood, so why was it so hard to reach?

 

“As much as you hate me, Sam –and I know there aren't enough words in your language to accurately describe those feelings– you're using me. I, being as real as summer rain and kitty cats, am your intermediary for what you want. See Castiel there? _You_ want him to be there, not me. _You_ make him a part of your reality. Me? I'm just watching on the sidelines while you create art with the clay I provide.

 

“Sam...” His hand was too frail against his face. This is how one would touch the features of a china doll. So entranced by the surface, diverting their focus to a pin point on their finger and committing every nuance to memory. Too tender, too caring. Using a mitten to disguise the scales underneath. “I just want to help by allowing you to have the only things in this world that can bring you joy. You deserve more than anyone to have that.”

 

Cas was close, his movements becoming more vigorous and trying valiantly himself to control his voice, “Sam” being drawled out once and awhile over the blur of Lucifer's prattling. Oh, he heard Cas, clear as a bell on a winter's day. Sam was coming to an edge also, but not the same one the angel strove for.

 

“Your heaven is here. The world you so desperately want to be real can be,” Lucifer whispered, “if you allow it to. Just stop _fighting_ it. You so vainly cling onto a reality that offers you nothing but grief. But here...” he petered off, probably looking at Cas. “You have all that you need. Cas and Dean, accepting the love you give them and returning it equally. I just... I don't understand why you brutalize yourself by choosing to continue life the way it is.”

 

I don't care anymore. I don't care if you don't understand me or if Cas hates me or if the sun explodes tomorrow. Where has my will gone?

 

“You've given yourself a gift. All you have to do it open it.”

 

Cas leaned down and wrapped his arms around Sam's neck, pressing himself tightly to his chest like he was being pried off. Never losing their connection or letting up on the pace he set, he and Sam lay together with foreheads touching, breath being recycled between them. How could something be both flawless and repulsive?

 

They nudged noses before Cas locked his lips over Sam's; no resistance was met. A perfect fit. The tentacle wasted no time on its journey downward, sliding down his tongue and through the esophagus, stretching tissue. It invaded his lungs, tiny offshoots spreading within the dendroid capillaries there. Into his arteries, his veins, his heart, leaving behind a venom as black as it was and foul as Sam's soul. The taint was spread everywhere within him. He was the taint. Poison. A burden. A gangrenous limb to be sawed away. This was the way he had always felt – only in his mind. Now, he became it. He was the beast, a creature to be hunted and decapitated, burned and erased.

 

Now that would make him happy.

 

Sam was never meant to live anyway.


End file.
